Read Online The Black Madonna by Louisa Ermelino - Free Book Online Page A

That whore you live with is getting it, no? From my son’s mouth to her pocket.”
    â€œPlease, Teresa, she’s a good woman. You two would get along, believe me. You’d like her.”
    Nicky’s mother spat in his face. He closed his eyes. “And you married her, didn’t you, Angelo? You stupid. You know you go to jail for that in this country?”
    â€œIf you’d listen, Teresa . . .”
    â€œI’m not listening to nothing. You listen. I’m going to your house in the Bronx, to your wife in the Bronx. I’m gonna take Nicky with me. I’m gonna tell her some things. And then I’m gonna pull out every hair on her head.”
    â€œI don’t know, Teresa. You were so sweet, such a sweet girl. What happened to you? Remember how you used to sing for me, and I would . . .”
    â€œShut up,” she said, “before I kill you. If I had a father . . . brothers . . . anybody . . .”
    â€œOkay, okay. What do you want? What am I supposed to do? You want to kill me? Go ahead. I’m half-dead as it is. Tell me. Anything. I’ll make it up to you. But Teresa, the truth. Did you and Nicky want for anything? Who on Spring Street’s got better than you?”
    â€œNicky can’t walk,” she told him.
    â€œWhat? What happened?”
    â€œHe had an accident.”
    â€œOh God. How? What?”
    â€œI need money . . . for an operation to make him walk.”
    â€œLook at me, Teresa. I got no money. I can’t work no more. I’m shot.”
    â€œNicky needs the operation.”
    â€œI got no money,” he told her. “I’d give it to you in a minute. You know that. For Nicky I’d do anything. He’s all I got.”
    â€œThe disability . . .”
    â€œHow much you think that is? What do you think I get? It’s nothing.”
    â€œYour wife,” she said, “the other one. Get the money from her.”
    â€œMy wife?”
    â€œYeah, Angelo. Cynthia, Celestina, whatever you call her, the undertaker’s daughter. She must have money. Whoever heard of a poor undertaker? Ask
her
for the money for your son.”
    â€œWhere’d you get all this from?”
    â€œNever mind.”
    He held his head in his hands. “Go ahead, Teresa,” he said. “Choke me. Ruin me. That’s why you came, right? I’m not sick enough. I’m not half-dead already. You wanna finish the job.”
    â€œI want the money for Nicky’s operation,” she said.
    â€œAt least you have to give me some time. Let me get out of here . . .”
    â€œ. . . and then you come down to the neighborhood. You spend a few days on Spring Street. You come all dressed up with presents for me and Nicky. You walk all around and you take us to Bleecker Street for ice cream and pastries. You show everybody Nicky’s got a father, Teresa Sabatini’s got a husband, and then you can go. You can say you’re shipping out and you can go for good.”
    Angelo’s tears had dried. He reached for her.
    â€œYou want me to come down to Spring Street and stay with you, Teresa? Like the old days? Like we was before? Like nothing’s changed? You still look good, Teresa. You look good to me.”
    Nicky’s mother stepped up close to the bed. She leaned over her husband and he lifted his face to her. She caught up the collar of his soft cotton pajamas in both hands. “You never talk to me like that again,” she said. “You do like I tell you and then you leave. Everything’s changed. Anything I do now, I do for Nicky.”
    Angelo leaned back into the pillow. She pulled at him, ripped his collar, and when she let go, he fingered the torn cloth. His eyes were wet again. She turned to go. The men in the room looked down suddenly, pretending to see the cards, the letters, the magazines they held in their hands.
    â€œTeresa,” Angelo called. His voice was hoarse.
    â€œDon’t